The Iron Citadel was a fortress masquerading as a palace. It sat at the southern edge of the continent, carved directly into the face of a jagged coastal cliff. As the king's retinue rode through the colossal steel gates, Rowan tasted salt in the air. The winter here was a mild, wet chill, nothing like the bone-snapping frost of the north. But as she looked at the towering spires of white marble and obsidian, she felt a different kind of cold.
The courtyard was lined with courtiers. They were draped in heavy velvets, spun silks, and vibrant dyes that hurt Rowan's eyes. They bowed as King Cassian's black warhorse trotted past, their faces perfectly schooled into masks of absolute reverence.
Rowan rode a steady gray mare two paces behind the king. She could feel their eyes on her. They didn't see a princess. They saw a threat. They saw the rough, ill-fitting wool of her traveling cloak. They saw the jagged, uneven cut of her hair, which Breeda had hacked short with a hunting knife to remove the matted filth of the cellar. They saw the way Rowan slouched slightly in the saddle, protecting ribs that were still knitting back together.
"Shoulders back," Breeda murmured from her left, her horse stepping in perfect synchronization with Rowan's. "If you bleed in front of sharks, they bite."
Rowan forced her spine straight. Her muscles screamed, but she locked her jaw. She didn't look down at the lords and ladies. She looked through them.
When they dismounted, Cassian didn't wait for the pleasantries. He tossed his reins to a stable hand and walked straight toward the grand staircase. The crowd parted for him like water. He didn't look back to see if Rowan was following. He expected it.
The interior of the citadel was a suffocating display of wealth. Woven rugs thick enough to swallow a boot, chandeliers dripping with forged glass, and rendered fat candles. But beneath the heavy scent of myrrh and roasted meats, Rowan's nose twitched. Fear. Jealousy. Ambition. The pheromones in the massive entry hall were a chaotic, toxic soup.
A tall man stepped into Cassian's path. He wore a doublet of deep emerald, his silver hair slicked back. His smile was smooth, but his eyes were entirely dead.
"My king," the man said, offering a shallow, calculated bow. "Your return blesses the citadel. We expected you a fortnight ago. The council has been anxious."
"The north required my extended attention, Lord Harland," Cassian said, his voice flat. He didn't stop walking, forcing the older lord to pivot and scramble to keep pace.
Harland's eyes flicked to Rowan. The disgust was microscopic, hidden behind a polite veneer, but Rowan caught it. She had survived ten years by reading the microexpressions of abusers. Harland thought she was trash.
"And this guest?" Harland asked, his tone dripping with artificial curiosity. "The rumors from the outer riders claim you found a ghost in the snow."
Cassian stopped abruptly. The sudden halt caused a ripple of panic among the following guards. He turned to face Harland. The king didn't yell. He simply let his aura drop, a heavy, suffocating blanket of alpha dominance that made the air in the corridor turn to lead. Harland visibly choked, his polished smile fracturing.
"She is no guest," Cassian stated, the gravel in his voice echoing off the marble. "She is Rowan of the northern bloodline, princess of Frost Peak, and she will be given the respect of her station, Harland, or I will let her mount your head on a spike in the gardens. Do we understand each other?"
Harland swallowed hard, his eyes wide. "Of course, sire. A misunderstanding."
Cassian turned away, dismissing the man entirely. He looked at Rowan. "Breeda will show you to your quarters. Rest. Tomorrow the wolves of the court will come to test your teeth."
The quarters they gave her were larger than the entire servants' wing at Frost Peak. A massive hearth roared with a steady fire. The bed was a monstrosity of carved oak and goose down pillows. But when Breeda finally left her alone, locking the heavy brass doors behind her, Rowan didn't go to the bed. She walked to the hearth, grabbed a heavy woolen blanket from the mattress, and curled up on the hard stone floor in front of the fire.
She stared into the flames.
Cassian had protected her in the hall, but she knew it was a demonstration of his own power, not just a defense of hers. He was using her to draw a line in the sand. I control the north. I control the bloodline.
Rowan closed her eyes, the heat of the fire sinking into her scarred hands. If she was going to survive this gilded cage, she couldn't rely on the king to bare his fangs for her every time a lord sneered. The court wanted to see a broken scrub.
She decided right then she would show them a monster instead.